


Black Hole Sun

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Angst, Background Relationships, Bad guys making nasty threats, Canon-Typical Violence, Chris Argent Is Not A Good Man, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV Second Person, Peter is not emo, Petopher Secret Santa 2014, Pop Culture, References to Illness, Rimming, Rough Sex, Second Chances, almost, but he tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hole up in the guest room. Kurt Cobain is dead, and so is your family. </p><p>***</p><p>In which Peter Hale is de-aged and wakes up in the future, and Chris Argent gets a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keepfacepalm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepfacepalm/gifts).



> Belated Merry Chrismas, Keepfacepalm! :D
> 
> Petopher Secret Santa 2014. 
> 
> Massive thanks to Calihart, Goyangifighting, and all of root cellar!
> 
> More tags will be added along the second part

Last thing you remember from before you wake up on one of Dr. Deaton’s exam tables is going to bed, yet another fight with Talia about—you don’t even remember what it was about, just remember being angry and upset and the slice of Alpha’s—not your alpha, never your alpha—claws across your cheek. You think you stumbled into your room, remember telling Derek to go away and then… 

Welcome to the future, Peter Hale. Where everyone you love is dead and you’re completely insane. Or at least, were until someone tried to go into your head to get information your drooling, broken body was unable to give and did something to bring back the young man you once were. 

Well, not everyone—Derek, sweet little buck-toothed Derek, he’s out there, this is his house you’re in. He’s a grown man now. He should be the Alpha—because Laura is dead and the future-past you killed her, and then he killed you for it but you didn’t stay dead, and he gave it all away to save Cora—little Cora who’s teething and trying to gnaw everything she can get her hands on, she’s in South America now and not dead. A young woman, not a baby. 

And the Beacon Hills Alpha is not a Hale. Instead, it’s a young true alpha, an interloper who— And the thought of it all makes your head hurt. Because you don’t remember taking revenge. Don’t remember the fire, or dying. 

Kurt Cobain is dead, but Dave Grohl isn’t and Foo Fighters aren’t that bad. You stare at the matchbox-sized thing that’s playing the music instead of a bulky Discman or a boombox. 

You bury yourself in Foo Fighters, the Star Wars Prequels, the new reboot Star Trek movie. You find that the Stilinski kid—the one who had been Mrs. Stilinski’s Bump just a few days ago, for you—is not too bad company and takes educating you in pop culture seriously. 

The Winter Soldier storyline fucks with your head something fierce. 

You’re good at hiding things. You could lie to your alpha’s face, you could lie to Talia, and here and now, you can lie to them all. They think you're a glib little sociopath who doesn’t grieve his dead family. And in some ways, they are right. You knew Cora as a teething baby—the twin boys that followed her, they are news to you. So is Aunt Clara’s husband and their three kids.

You may have hated Talia, but you never wanted—this. Never this. And when you think about her—think about Laura, think about Aunt Clara and Johnny you just lose it. So you don’t. You shove it deep down, you act like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re a hundred years in the future and they all passed away peacefully, not in agony as flames burned down the house you were born in. (The house you were buried in. The house you were born again in.)

It’s a good thing you already took revenge. Twice. 

There’s a part of you that wonders if you should feel guilty. You killed Laura, you’ve been told. Derek’s eyes are dark with guilt when he tells you what you did. That you killed Laura for her alpha powers. 

You don’t know if you did. Or if she decided to finish you off. You know she left you in the hospital for years, scarred and broken, prey to any hunter that passed through. Exposed to something worse, your mind violated for the first time. (You do not think about what they tell you happened to make them desperate enough to try to rejuvenate you.) You think about it when you stand on the balcony late at night, staring at the sky that’s got more light pollution than you remember, taking a deep drag of a menthol cigarette because you can’t get cloves in Beacon Hills any more—you’d have to go all the way to the city, and the fact that you are a man out of time is even more evident. 

You were supposed to have it all. Only one more year, until Cora was a little bit bigger and Derek had mastered control. Talia promised, she swore that she’d let you go, that college was an option.

As if. 

***

You bury it all deep and throw yourself head first into the 21st century. You learn the lingo, learn to email and text and use Google. The internet is marvellous and the idea of everything at your fingertips, well, it just gives you ideas. 

Bumpy… Stiles becomes something of a friend. Maybe a good friend, even. He’s just as much of an asshole as you are, and you recognize a mask when you see one. He’s also not hard on the eyes, but doesn’t really hold a candle to his dad. The Sheriff. 

“Dude, your dad is even hotter now,” you say _sotto voce_ , and watch Stiles’s face go a shade of pale usually not found in nature before it turns red and the protestations and goddammit Peters start. 

The Sheriff just pinches the bridge of his nose and _looks_ at you two. 

You wink with zero shame, and he shakes his head, muttering about damn kids being the death of him. 

It’s when you’re alone with Stiles and he’s ranting about his virgin eyes and ears and stating that he is not in fact a virgin but he didn’t need to hear any of that about his dad, you lean back in your chair and smile. 

“I like you, Stiles.”

“Dude, you just told me you think my dad is hot. And now you like me, what’s this, upgrading to version 2.0? No, actually don’t answer, I don’t want you to like me Peter, you’re a murderous scum bag. Were a murderous scum bag. Could be one. Shit. I don’t know. Either way, I have a girlfriend, who is gonna come back to town any day now and Malia might be your—“ 

Stiles clams up then, and you’re intrigued. You file away the name Malia, but you don't pursue it. You just keep needling Stiles about the fact that his dad is a— _DILF_? But you don’t ask about her. About the girl who shares a name with your grandmother. 

Because when you say you like Stiles, you mean you like him. Not like him like him—you don’t think you could, because, Bumpy, but even if you hadn’t felt him move in his mom’s tummy just a few weeks ago, he’s still not your type. He’s too young, for one, and the kind of power and danger Stiles has in his fingertips doesn’t lend to the kind of rough and tumble you want when it comes to guys. 

It’s another three weeks before Derek tells you, someone he knows who can make sure you will exist in the system, is coming. Someone he knows _well,_ based on how she greets him enthusiastically, tongue down his throat. It makes you feel uncomfortable, in a way you can’t quite describe, as if a part of you knows that Derek’s luck with women is no good. (You don’t know who Paige is. You will have to find out.) 

With Braeden, comes Malia. And she looks nothing like Grandmother, but she looks just like Daisy Coleridge. You say as much and everything bursts into chaos. 

You learn you have a daughter. 

She’s happy with her adopted father and tells you so. You can only nod and agree and be grateful that she doesn’t want you to remember. Braeden is the one who asks you all about Daisy and then leaves again. 

You told her maybe a little too much, maybe not enough. You don’t know if you trust her, don’t like the way she puts her booted feet on the table. The way she laughed when you told her it was Italian. Derek is older than you are but he is still that stupid pup that followed you everywhere and kept hiding behind you every time Tammy Marcus came in sight. You’re protective of him still, even more so than Cora who is just a voice you don’t recognize on the phone, a face across the webcam that looks hauntingly familiar and yet not. 

It takes time to settle in. To get used to being in a pack that is not bound by blood, a pack that you have only the most tenuous claim on to. You know you are lucky to be alive, and you resent it. Resent the True Alpha, Scott McCall for doing this to you. You know it is not logical and the boy is doing everything but bending over backwards to make sure you are okay and have everything you need because there’s all this talk about second chances and how you haven’t done all those bad things yet and you want to scream that given the chance you would do it all again. That you would tear out the throat of Kate Argent with your claws a hundred thousand times. 

You hate that you can’t remember doing it. 

The second person who comes back takes one look at you and promptly slaps you across the face. You watched Pirates of the Caribbean just a few days ago and you have no idea who the redhead is, so you turn to Stiles and tell him, “I didn’t deserve that.” 

The redhead makes a noise that grates against your very soul and slaps you again. 

“You’re going to tell me you didn’t deserve that one, either?” 

You reconsider. See the cold, hard fury in her eyes. “No, that one I deserved. I just want to know why.” 

Turns out she’s a banshee in her prime before she’s old enough to drink because you bit her. And you’re only alive because you latched on to her when you did, seduced her inside her own head into doing your bidding. It’s a good plan. One you can approve of. You say so, and she slaps you again. 

The fact that she was not here to drag you out from your head when you were nothing but a trapped, gibbering mess is also why you are here and now as you are. You don’t know if it makes you grateful, or if you want to rip out her throat with your teeth. 

There is arguing. Arguing you tune out because you don’t want to hear it. You’ve heard it all before—you know Stiles argued that they should leave you in Eichen House, that you should be killed on principle in the beginning, as Lydia does now. Doesn’t mean you don’t consider Stiles something of a friend now, since you know you would say the exact same under different circumstances. (Why didn’t Talia listen? Will Scott McCall ignore you, too? You know he will. But that’s okay, that’s why the True Alpha has a Stiles. And, maybe, you.) 

Lydia is gorgeous when she’s angry. She’s probably gorgeous all the time, but you don’t tell her so. You don’t think she’d appreciate it. Which really is a shame because she is so much your type, it almost hurts. Almost. 

You change your mind, you hate her with a passion when she takes one look at the outfit you’re wearing and declares you a fashion victim. So okay maybe you haven’t been looking up the latest styles like you should have, but it’s nothing people around you don’t wear. You ganked the dark red plaid shirt from Stiles. (You’re so glad Back to the Future has not come to pass, but you still want a hoverboard.)

“Maybe you should take me shopping for clothes, then,” you suggest, because you know she won’t, she won’t want to spend a single minute in your presence if she can avoid it. 

“Oh, you’re on, mister.” 

Apparently even though you don’t legally exist at the moment and therefore don't have a penny to your name, that doesn’t mean you can’t have the use of Derek’s black Amex for a day and the look of sadistic glee on Derek’s face when he hands it over gives you pause. 

(Whatever assets you had, before, they’re in Derek’s name now. You haven’t been to the vault, don’t know if there is a single thing in there that is yours.)  
It takes you less than fifteen minutes in the (brand new to you) Beacon Hills Mall to realize why Derek had been so gleeful and Stiles so pitying. Because Lydia is a menace and you’re fighting not to growl at her when she holds up a salmon crew-neck sweater. 

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!” 

So it goes. You avoid the sweater that clashes with your skin tone something fierce, but Lydia seems to have a definite agenda in how she steers you away from some of the selection. You don’t know why—you look really fucking amazing in a V-neck shirt, thank you very much. (You’ve seen photos of your—old self. You know you’re gonna keep your looks, know you’re gonna grow into the promise of your shoulders, know how to highlight all those assets. Maybe this time you won’t age so fast, without the fire melting your skin again and again. Maybe.)

But Lydia _has_ taste. You really like skinny jeans, even though there's a part of you that is convinced they’re hopelessly stuck in the 80s, all trash metal and long hair. But they make your ass look amazing, and the eyebrow you get from Lydia is as good as a leer from anyone else. You buy them. 

You draw the line at getting a second pair in bright red. 

The vintage t-shirt shop has you clenching your jaw, pushing emotions away because you remember getting that same Alice in Chains shirt from Laura for your birthday. It’s now ridiculously expensive, it’s _vintage_ , nearly two decades old. The guy behind the counter looks suspiciously familiar and you almost ask him _‘Dave?’_ but you don’t. It just might be the guy who played the drums for your classmate’s band, but it’s not like you care. Not. 

Lydia buys it for you anyway and you don’t thank her. 

It’s that shirt that you are wearing when Chris Argent shows up on Derek’s doorstep. 

***

Chris knows he can’t stay here. After everything, after bringing Kate down for the second time, he’d come back here to see her buried—her ashes—in the same tomb where his wife and daughter rest. 

It’s not the heavy weight on his heart and soul; he knows he cannot escape it, will always feel the loss of his sister, the loss of his daughter, the loss of his wife and partner. Maybe one day it will be not so keen, not so sharp, but for now he knows there is no oblivion for him. No, it’s something else. 

He sees how Isaac looks at him, sees the faint blushes, the averted eyes. He doesn’t need supernatural senses to tell that the boy is not just agitated, that the tone of their shared grief has changed. Isaac has imprinted on to him like a duckling, like a lost baby animal and Chris knows he cannot let it happen, cannot let anything happen. Because it is just that—a lost child imprinting, not anything real. Not anything good for the boy. 

So, he leaves. Because he knows he’s not a good man, and he knows he won’t have what it takes to do the right thing if Isaac ever gets the nerve to crawl into his room at night. He trusts great-uncle Fabian and Tante Marie will look after the boy, wolf or not. Perhaps one of the many cousins will catch his eye. Perhaps. 

He gets on a plane in Paris. He’s always disliked flying, even more so with all the new security restrictions. He feels naked without a firearm, or a proper knife. He is not fully unarmed, but it is bad enough. The drinks are complimentary so he takes full advantage, falling asleep somewhere before Greenland and sleeping fitfully till they start their descent. 

The message delivered to one of his phones is a surprise. Belatedly he realizes it may not have had international functions enabled, but then again, not many people have the number. 

The message is from Scott McCall. It’s old, but the system doesn’t tell him how old—it could have been sent an hour ago or a month ago—Chris doesn’t know how long texts stay live in the system. He should find out. Because the message—and the second, and the third—paint a disturbing picture. Simple request for information, clarification that the situation had been dealt with, and that there had been unexpected consequences. What stands out is four simple words. 

_Peter’s our age now._

There are too many questions to be covered by messaging Scott back. It takes him a little over nine hours to get to Beacon Hills, the speed limit something of a suggestion than a rule along the way. He doesn’t believe there has been a massacre—he would know, could not miss it—but more subtle forms of revenge, those might not have made the news or the grapevine. 

Perhaps he’s wrong, perhaps the newly rejuvenated Peter Hale is still safely locked away in Eichen House, unable to take his revenge. Perhaps he’s ran away, never to be seen again. But the ache in his side tells him otherwise. 

The last thing he expects is to step into Derek’s loft only to see a gorgeous young man lounging on the sofa, blue eyes going wide with delight when he sees Chris. The boy licks his plush lips, raking his eyes blatantly up and down Chris’ body. 

“Well, hello there.” 

**** 

You know immediately the man is a hunter. There is no mistaking the subtle scent of wolfsbane on him, mingling with gunpowder and well worn leather. The way he stands, feet a shoulder width apart, danger coiling in the tension of his shoulder.

You should run. When you see hunters, you run. There is no other way. Anything else leads to _pain fire death no will not think about it_ bad things. But you’re also confident that whoever this man is, he is here not to hunt but to—actually you’re not so sure about that. But Derek is upstairs, and you know Scott is on his way so you think flirting with danger might be just what the doctor ordered. 

You see the way his eyes track you as you put aside your book—you’re only a few chapters in, but thus far you’re really digging Harry Potter, Snape is _such_ a dick—and stand up, stepping away from the sofa and towards the hunter despite the instincts that scream to you to stay the hell away, to run. 

What do you have left to lose?

Before the situation can escalate, Derek comes down and greets the hunter, “Chris.” 

And that’s when it hits you. Chris. _Argent_. This is the brother of that bitch who decimated your pack, who burned out your family. Who—you don’t know everything, you know they think he’s not a bad guy, think he’s safe to keep around, has helped against worse things than a pack of wolves and snippets of conversations you should not have heard, information you know they don't want you have slots into place. The poor bastard is just as alone as you are, if not more. At least you still have Derek and Cora and an alpha who wants to make you pack, despite—everything. (You were smart to bite him. You don’t think you would be here if you had bit Stiles, back then. It was dumb luck that Scott was the one you’d found touching Laura’s body. Scott’s bland morality means you get a second chance. Even if you have done nothing to deserve judgement—not yet. Not you.)

 

“Derek,” the hunter acknowledges but his eyes never leave you. Cold and calculating, they bore through you, but you think—no, you know there is more to that gaze than plain threat assessment. You scent the air and _oh_. Isn’t that interesting? 

“This is Peter.” Derek, still far more blunt than you remember. 

You raise your hand and do a little wave. “Hi.” 

“What happened?” Argent’s voice is low and all business, his scent returning to what is most likely his baseline, as does his heartbeat. Yours spikes up at that, at the sheer _control_ that shows. This hunter is a living weapon. 

“We needed information. It backfired.”

The hunter looks at you, and you can’t help it, you preen. 

“I can see that. What did you do?” 

Derek shrugs. “Magic. It was supposed to wake him up, to make his mind whole again. It... did not work.” 

The hunter— Chris frowns. “Are you so sure about that?” 

You fall still. He is the first one to say the spell worked as designed, that your being here is not some mishap, a fluke, a cruel accident of fate. 

You know—you _knew_ your sister well. And suddenly, you wonder. But none of it shows on your face; instead, you tilt your head and shrug. But you cannot ignore the small wounded sound your nephew makes, as if he’s been punched in the gut. 

***

 

Peter’s eyes are no longer an electric blue. They’re still a gorgeous pale blue when he’s not wolfed out, but the warm gold is a big surprise to Chris. He cannot imagine a Peter who hasn’t killed, hasn’t _murdered_ and the sight of him like this, young and—young, is unsettling. 

Especially the fact that Chris can’t help but find him attractive. 

Peter Hale has always been hot—arrogant, with a jawline to die for and the effortless, enviable werewolf build he’d delighted in showing off. But now, he’s almost pretty, the arrogance not tempered by cynicism. 

Chris is not a good man. He left France knowing he would not say no to a seventeen year old boy who he thinks he could think of as a son one day if that boy crawled into his bed and begged Chris to fuck him. 

He is not good, and he is not nice. So he’s brusque and rude with this Peter, clamping down on the attraction he feels. It’s what he does best: compartmentalizes, pushes thoughts and emotions out of the way to be dealt with in due time. 

Just like he’d shelved his attraction to Victoria the first time he met her, crashing through woods pursuing a rabid wendigo. Their marriage had already been arranged well before then, so it had not posed a problem. But this is not a parallel Chris is happy to draw while he makes a few calls, checks on the resources he has at his disposal. 

Maybe he should be surprised when he finds out the spell did its job and restored Peter to a point where his mind had not been interfered with, but he knows enough of what alphas are capable of. Knows enough about Talia Hale. Derek casually mentioning his mother taking some of his memories more than once makes a chill run down Chris’s spine. 

There’s a part of him that regrets not disobeying Scott and putting a bullet in Peter’s head anyway. To spare him Eichen House and the fate worse than death. Another part of him wonders since when does he obey a teenage boy, obey a werewolf, but he knows exactly when that shift happened and he does not dare to go there. 

He’s been compartmentalizing for a long time now. 

Chris knows there is no going back—unless they kill or imprison Peter again, they’re stuck with the young, cocky shithead and dear God it is almost like having a second Stiles, only Chris has never looked at Stiles’ mouth and _wanted_. He’s never looked at Stiles and thought about shutting him up with his cock. Thank God for small mercies. 

There is a part of him that’s all for locking Peter up or worse, but he knows he could not justify it to Scott—or to himself. Not by the Code, old or new. In fact, he thinks bitterly as he sips his drink, watching the way Peter and Stiles argue in low voices, no doubt about some superhero trivia tidbit or other, Peter is in need of protecting. He’s not sure why he is here—it is a _pack_ bonding night, but Scott invited him. And, he supposes, he should not leave the Sheriff to be the lone adult. He knows it’s unfair towards Derek, the boy has not been a child since Kate, and that is a thought he shoves aside in a hurry. Just as he tries to not to think about the fact that despite how young he looks, Peter didn’t go back far enough to be considered a child, either. Old enough to drive, to vote, to - well, not old enough to drink, but certainly other things. Which Chris is not going to think about. 

He knows he should leave—if nothing else, he could always go south, lose himself in the desert while on some Calavera hunt that might as well be for money and not for monsters. There are always options for a hunter at the end of his rope, ways to endure… or to go down fighting. Only thing he knows is that he needs to stay away from Isaac a little bit longer, until the betrayal disappears from those huge blue eyes when the boy Skypes him, so France is out. 

Chris tells himself he should keep an eye out on Peter because there is a part of him that thinks, this is too good to be true. That there’s no such thing as a pure second chance, having all your wrongs erased. What would he do, given the same chance? To be Peter’s age again? 

He knows he would never do it. The idea of forgetting Allison is abhorrent. He knows Peter doesn’t feel the same about Malia, because he’d not known about the girl for most of his life anyway—and now, they both prefer it the same way, treading around one another like estranged cousins. 

Peter laughs at something Stiles said, head thrown back and unabashed and Chris feels a darkness welling up in his chest. It’s not jealousy, it’s concern—because Peter is a manipulative, flirtatious little shit and Chris has no doubt he would not think twice before destroying a relationship for his own gain, even if it were his own daughter whose boyfriend he was stealing. 

... Christ. Stealing her boyfriend. How juvenile is Chris’ thought process, after so much time sent around the children? He glances at the Sheriff, sees the frown on the man’s face. The unspoken concern. 

He shakes his head in return. There’s nothing he can say. 

***

“What happened to Derek’s eyes?”

Stiles looks at you, _really looks_ at you as if he can’t believe your audacity. 

“You don’t remember?” 

You shake your head. “It must’ve happened... after.” 

In that part of your life that has been completely erased. The part of you that is dead. 

Stiles purses his lips, “I could say it’s not my story to tell but you’re the one who told me in the first place. Jesus Christ, you were such an asshole. Are such an asshole”

And so you hear about Paige. Human, sweet girl, who made Derek’s heart pitter-patter. And how you convinced him to plot with you, to make her pack. 

“Smart,” you say. “Make Ennis happy, keep the alliance strong. Make sure the hunters’ actions don’t cost us any more lives. And— _keep it secret, keep it safe,_ ” you parrot. 

But you don’t think you would have been telling Derek that he must be terrified for Paige to find out. That sort of fear does not sit right with you, and you wonder. You know you were brought back to a restoration—no, restore point, before your mind had been damaged. You remember Uncle Stefan’s abrupt paranoia, and your sister’s regretful glances. You think of Daisy Coleridge in her sleeveless Hole shirt, about the upcoming gig, and wonder. 

You know Braeden and Malia are on the road again, armed with the information that Malia looks hell of a lot like someone who has a paper trail, who exists beyond a pseudonym. You wish them all the luck because there is a part of you that is dying to remember, to know. To have what is rightfully yours. 

You think if Talia was still alive, you would slash her throat yourself. 

“Scott is a good alpha,” you say and watch Stiles’ eyes bug out as he nearly falls off his chair, spraying Dorito crumbs everywhere. 

“You’re the last person I expected to say that, Creeperwolf.”

You shrug. “It’s the truth.”

You don’t elaborate, but you think about the way you’ve seen Scott’s baby beta look at that clueless best friend of his. The same baby beta whom Talia would have left for dead, and you think history will not repeat itself. There will be no undue blue eyes for little Liam, and that makes you glad.

Derek’s eyes make you feel guilty, despite knowing it’s not you who caused them. Except, it is, and you wonder if your eyes will stay gold.

You ask Stiles why it happened the first time around. He doesn’t know. Neither does Derek, and you are not going to ask Deaton. Maybe the hunter would know, but to be frank the last thing you want Chris Argent to think about when you’re talking to him is what you have done in the past. 

Because despite the fact that you’re bonding with Stiles, over not quite unwarranted feelings of guilt and regret as well as pop culture catch-up, it’s the hunter who’s got your eye. Whereas Stiles is too young and not physical enough, Chris Argent is fucking _perfect._

You know you should not let yourself think about a hunter that way—not even a tame one. Because you know it is death, a bad idea, Talia would skin you alive for it... and yeah, that is why you’re not paying attention to Buffy (who would've thunk the dumb movie Laura adored would spawn such a great show?) but you don’t find this episode that good—oh look college boys and frat parties hiding something sinister, yawn. 

You carefully ignore Angel’s dig about the age difference while you wonder when you will see the hunter again. Maybe you should seek him out—it is not like he does much as far as you know, broods and plots with Derek and Scott to make sure anything stirred by the Nemeton will stay put. 

Maybe chasing a hunter is crazy but you’re not a fool. You’ve seen the way he tenses around you, the darkening of his eyes. The subtle shift of his scent, not arousal but _interest_ , tamped down hard. You can feel his eyes on you when you’re in the same room, and you know there is _something_ there. 

A part of you is railing against the idea of going after the hunter with the gorgeous blue eyes and the beard you want to feel rubbing against your neck with a frightening intensity. Your family is gone, your pack is decimated and you should _rebuild,_ you should _breed_ , the animalistic urge of the wolf raising in you. 

It makes you glad to know you already have. You have passed on your good looks and intellect, even if Malia looks like Daisy. Even though she is gone for now, you know she will come back home to the pack. 

It doesn’t bother you that the Alpha is not a Hale. The blood is still strong. For all your many vices, patience is one virtue you have in abundance and you know that even though it might take a generation or two, there will be a Hale Alpha in Beacon Hills, roaring triumphant. ( _Hear us roar!_ Joffrey’s a dick, though.) 

All your plans are derailed when you simply run into Chris fucking Argent in the Starbucks near the Sheriff’s station one gray morning. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept, and you wonder what’s kept him up all night. Grief? Guilt? Hot cybersex with the prettyboy wolf he took to France? 

“Peter,” he greets you neutrally with a head tilt and a flare of his nostrils that would not be noticeable to someone who scents the air as easy as breathing. His fingers twitch and you can’t help it, you grin. 

“Hey, Mr. Argent,” you drawl. Most of the pack just calls him Argent, Derek calls him Chris, but neither sits right on your tongue. You breathe and gauge his reaction.

And you just like watching him squirm. To be reminded that yeah, he’s trying to keep himself from giving an appreciative once-over to someone your age. 

It’s not like it matters, you’re old enough, and even if you weren’t the papers Braeden is procuring for you will say you are. But Argent is still old enough to be your father, and you can't deny that’s part of the thrill. All the more reason you shouldn’t be licking your lips, canting your hips when you ask him why he’s up so early. 

“Paperwork,” he says gruffly. “Since I’m staying for a while, there are some things that need taken care of.” 

You nod in understanding. You know his cover for his hunting activities is arms trade. You checked if they were publicly traded, once, because you liked the idea of hunters making money for you but of course, Talia happened. You wonder what is going on with the company now, the family business. You probably shouldn’t. 

You watch his brow crease, heaviness set around his eyes as he sips his—large, black—coffee. “What about you?” 

You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

And it is true. You’ve never been one for slumber, but now it’s even worse. You hate waking up because a part of you still expects everyone to be there—not the mostly empty loft and an angry nephew who looks at you like he wants to kill you half of the time. (The other half he looks like he’s gonna cry, and that makes you want to hug him and tell him it’s okay, but it’s not.) 

You get your coffee, a frothy concoction with whipped cream, not your usual fare but the heat in Argent’s eyes when he sees you lick a stray drop from your lips is so worth it. 

There’s sympathy in those eyes, too, and that’s what lets you cajole him to join you despite the fact that his coffee was to go. He picks a corner table, gets the wall to his back and you approve. Especially since you can now sit adjacent to him, rather than opposite, your knees brushing together under the table. 

You don’t fail to notice that he didn’t let you at his back. That’s okay, you’re wearing your favourite skinny jeans. Your ass looks amazing, and you know it. And so does he, now. 

The silence that befalls you now is not oppressive, nor awkward. If you had to give it a quality, it would be anticipatory. Because he’s watching you, really watching you now, like he hasn’t before. Like he’s finally seeing you and now, not who you could have been already. 

“I really can’t stay that long,” he murmurs as he takes another long sip of the coffee. “I have an appointment with John when he comes in.” 

You shrug. “You know he’d understand that you had been inevitably delayed by my dazzling presence.” 

Chris snorts. “Really now.” 

You grin. “Of course. _No one can resist me.”_

The not even you is unspoken, a challenge you maybe should not have made this early in the morning, this early in the game. Argent snorts, shakes his head but his eyes don’t meet yours, instead looking at some spot over your shoulder when he snorts. “In your dreams, kid.”

 

****

 

He _is_ late for his appointment with John, but when he mentions he ran into Peter John sighs and waves him off. Apparently, Peter has spent enough time with Stiles that John is well aware of this version's proclivity for persuasiveness. 

“And you’re not worried?” Chris raises an eyebrow when he pulls out the files he brought in. 

John shakes his head slowly. “This is the last thing I ever expected to say about Peter Hale, but no, I am not worried. I think helping him acclimate to— All this is good for Stiles. And as much as it galls me.. can’t really blame the kid for things he hasn’t done. Hell, I still feel bad for laying the blame for the Benefactor mess on him.”

Chris nods grimly. It would have been so easy to lay the blame on Peter but he remembers John telling him how Melissa had had words with him, about thought crime and how she was the last person on earth to want to cut any slack for Peter fucking Hale, but he couldn’t really be blamed for what thoughts an out of control banshee had picked out of his delirious mind. 

He doesn’t want to think about the state Peter had been in when he’d been de-aged. Derek spared him the details, but every time Chris thinks of Valack, still sitting smugly in Eichen House, his trigger finger itches. 

“Hell, the kid convinced Stiles to let me have Meat Lover’s pizza the other day.” John’s smile is small but genuine. 

No matter what age he’s at, Peter Hale is a manipulative little shit. Chris reminds himself of this as he goes through the paperwork with the sheriff, and pushes the thoughts of a perfect bubble butt clad in too-tight jeans aside. Doesn’t think about bright blue eyes, or lips that looked too good to be true when Peter licked the remains of whipped cream off them. Or the simple fact that he’d enjoyed talking to Peter. 

Because Peter Hale’s second chance should not be ruined by a hunter old enough to be his father, who still looks at him and wonders when the other shoe is going to drop. 

Who knew Peter Hale could be so damn... likeable? Smart, sarcastic, poetic even, a few minutes of sharing coffee giving Chris a glimpse to someone he wants to know better, to his own chagrin. 

Chris doesn’t want to think about the fact that he’d agreed to see the kid again, that Peter’s smile had made his heart skip a beat... He’s not blind or oblivious, he knows when he’s being flirted with and it should not make him feel good. 

The text takes him by surprise. _Are you free tonight?_

He almost doesn’t answer. He doesn’t recognize the number. Almost. _Who is this?_

 _Can’t you guess?_ is accompanied by a winky face and a wolf emoji. 

Chris can. Oh, he can.

_How did you get my number, Peter?_

_From Scott, duh. Now are you free tonight or not?_

The fact that it was Scott and not Derek who gave Peter his number gives Chris pause. He has no problem picturing Peter swiping Derek’s phone and taking it himself, or cadging it off Stiles when they hang out, but Scott would not give it to Peter without a reason. 

Even if that reason is trying to treat Peter like—someone who is not a walking time bomb. 

_What do you need?_

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, finally! thank you so much Calihart, Alyacta, Goyangigfighting and all of root cellar for your support <3
> 
> Please mind the updated tags. 
> 
> Title is from a Soundgarden song, and other song and lyric references are scattered throughout.

You almost respond, _A date,_ but restrain yourself in time. You don’t want to scare him off, after all. No, to hunt a hunter, you need to be subtle. 

_An escort_ , you type quickly. 

It takes a moment before he replies. _Are you sure you have the right number?_  
  
You grin, showing teeth. _What, you’re not that kind of a girl?_

_Very funny, Peter. Do you need me for something, or not?_

_Yes, I do._

And you do. It’s not Chris, specifically, but Derek did not quite laugh in your face when he refused, and your other options are... limited. If you had your paperwork already there’d be no problem but Braeden is more concerned with chasing down the ghost of the Desert Wolf than making sure your life can get on track. You almost add _I need an adult_ but you’re not quite sure if it’s appropriate or not. 

_What is it?_

You tell him the truth. Well, part of it. _Braeden is taking her time with the paperwork._

_I am not buying you booze, Hale._

_It wouldn’t do anything to me anyway._

_Fine. When and where?_

You give him the time and an address. (It’s walking distance. You miss the sweet cherry red Viper, haven’t asked what happened to it. Maybe you should, but a part of you doesn’t want to know. You like to think you traded it in for something subtle, something... boring. That it did not go up in flames, like your records and comics did.)

He shows up early, a good fifteen minutes before the appointed time. You have no doubt he’s scoped the entire place out beforehand, and is probably armed. It’s a good thing you’ve been here since half past, yourself, and he’s seen you, looking at the posters and swearing under your breath at the claw game. They still suck. 

“Really, Peter?” He greets you, a look of consternation on his face. “This is what you wanted me for?” 

You can’t help it, you grin broadly. 

“Wait, don’t answer that.” He frowns. “But really, a R—rated movie?” 

You shrug unapologetically. “I’m old enough but I can’t prove it.”

“So you thought it would be a good idea to ask _me?”_

“Derek said no.” And you don’t have to elaborate, how the number of people who know of you and are old enough to drink is vanishingly small—and even smaller when it comes to this, to stealing a little slice of normalcy amidst everything. 

You can see when he gives in, when the tension in his shoulders dials down a notch and a long—suffering sigh escapes his lips. “Fine. What are we watching?” 

You’ve always liked cheesy horror movies—especially the ones with werewolves—but this one doesn’t have a wolf, at least, you don’t think so. But, it’s by Joss Whedon and has that hot guy from Thor on it, so you think it’s gonna be good. 

You’re wrong. It’s _awesome_ , and it makes you smile like a complete idiot. Next to you, Chris pretends to be unaffected, but you can sense the rest of tension leeching out of him—well, most of it, and he doesn’t flinch when your fingers meet in the box of popcorn. (Extra butter).

He looks a lot younger when he laughs. 

The movie ends on a high note and your shoulders brush when you walk out into the surprisingly cool evening. You’re glad for your leather jacket, werewolf or not. The chill doesn’t bother Chris, but you think it’s maybe the hunter training, or just not being from California originally. This is probably beach weather in— “Where are you from? Originally?” You ask before you can stop yourself. 

He starts, like he didn’t expect your question. “Why do you want to know?” 

 

There’s a hint of suspicion in his voice, but the tension doesn’t return and you take it as a win. 

 

“Because I’m _cold_ ,” you draw the word out, “and you’re fine. It’s not fair, I’m the— _hairy one._ ” Which is actually untrue, you’re pretty amazed at the fact that Derek has chest hair, now, but as a rule Hale men tend to not to have a pelt unless you’re in wolf form. 

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your euphemism. “Really now.”

“You don’t believe me? Wanna see?” You grin and slide a hand to the bottom of your shirt. 

He shakes his head, and you can hear the spike in his pulse, the little hitch in his breath. “Wouldn’t want you to get any colder, Peter. To answer your question, I was born in Michigan but never stayed anywhere for long. Spent my senior year of high school in four different places.” 

“Too bad you didn’t come to Beacon Hills,” you blurt out without meaning to. You grin at him quickly, disarmingly, and start talking about the movie in what is hopefully not a blatant attempt to change the subject. 

When Chris was a high school Senior, you were in sixth grade. You try to remember that quote about grades and babies but you fail miserably. It’s something you need to ask Stiles. You’re going to see him tomorrow anyway, to watch the first Men in Black movie. 

You still can’t believe the Fresh Prince is an A—list actor. 

****

_Too bad you didn’t come to Beacon Hills._

The words haunt him, despite his best attempts to ignore them, to ignore Peter. But somehow, he still gets roped into more outings to the movies—the lady at the ticket office still giving them the stink—eye, while the girls at the concession stand titter behind their hands. 

He should be worried about his reputation, as tarnished as it already is, but the fact that he truly enjoys Peter’s company enough to ignore the whispers of cradle robbing. It’s not like anything is going on between them. 

Chris wants to say he’s just keeping an eye on the kid, maybe offering him some company that actually lived through the 1990’s rather than spent them in diapers. (Chris can’t help it, every time Peter calls Stiles “Bumpy” he has to stifle laughter.) Someone who understands why Peter was so upset to hear about Blixa’s departure from the Bad Seeds, or why debit cards are a big deal. 

Spending time with Peter feels… good, plain and simple. Even when he drags Chris to see a movie about male strippers, or to a new Thai restaurant where Chris gets food poisoning and Peter’s werewolf constitution leaves him unscathed. Peter is embracing his second chance, and Chris can’t fault him. 

But he keeps an eye on him. 

In the dark of the night, lying alone in his bed in the single bedroom apartment that’s nowhere near his old house nor the last apartment he had, he thinks about the what—ifs. How things could have been, had he come to Beacon Hills. 

He remembers that first tumultuous year when he and Victoria had barely settled into their partnership. An arranged marriage, not a love match, but they had been good partners. When they had looked for an area to stay in during her pregnancy and Allison’s first few months, Beacon Hills had made the shortlist. Even before, when he’d been 21, fresh back from France and eager to prove himself to Gerard, he’d nearly come here on his own. 

If he’d met Peter back then? He doesn’t want to think about a world where Allison never came to being, where she never lived her beautiful, bright, too short life. Her birth is still the most beautiful moment of his life, and he would die in a heartbeat if it mean she would walk this earth for one more day. But, he thinks, if he’d met Peter… he would have not gone along with his father’s will and married Victoria. 

The first time he smiled, _really_ smiled after Allison was because of Peter. The look of quiet, unbridled joy on Peter’s face when he’d seen Braeden, when he’d looked at her and _known_ before Derek made the announcement. It should have been unsettling, that Peter had sniffed out the pregnancy just like that, but Peter is not human and neither is Derek. 

Of course Chris is happy for Derek, too—but that is a happiness that’s tinged with bittersweet pain. His happiness at the fact that Peter is embracing his second chance is—something new...

Maybe they’ve both been given a second chance. 

Or maybe he’s just a dirty old man who should not take Peter’s flirting seriously. The kid—and yeah, he’s a kid, even though they're technically close to contemporaries, the age he is now makes Peter young enough to be his son despite the ID Braeden procured for him proclaiming “Ian Hale” to be over 21. The kid flirts with everyone, including the Sheriff and Melissa who act oblivious and exasperated, respectively. 

Chris may be a dirty old man, but he’s never claimed to be a _good_ man, so he doesn’t stop his hand when it glides down his stomach to the growing bulge in his boxers as he thinks about Peter’s plush lips. Thinks about seeing those lips wrapped around his cock, big blue eyes looking up to him as he runs his hands through sable hair. 

He likes to take his time, to draw this out. Slowly, he cups his balls as he thinks about how flirty Peter is, what a little cocktease the kid can be. Those tight jeans frame his ass to perfection and although he no longer constantly wears v—necks cut deep enough to show impressive cleavage for a man, he now favors shirts that ride up just so.

Chris thinks about the teasing hints of creamy pale skin, hint of hip bone and soft flesh he wants to put his mouth on and leave red marks. Wants to run his hands under those tight shirts, push them up and bite the pebbled nipples he can sometimes glimpse through the fabric. He thinks Peter’s nipples would be sensitive, would draw noises from Peter with every pass of Chris’ tongue as the wolf struggles in his hold. 

And he _would_ hold Peter down; he rubs his thumb over the precome beading at the tip of his cock and spreads it down his shaft. He grabs the lube and slicks himself further, thinking about making Peter beg. Make him deliver on all those unspoken promises, every flirtatious smile, every long, lingering look behind those long lashes. He’d look so good on his knees, lips trembling as Chris rubs the head of his dick against them, gets them wet and sticky before he tells the kid to open up, take him in. 

He’s never had a werewolf before, but he thinks the difference in body temperature would be noticeable; enough to make Peter’s sinful mouth almost too hot, so soft and wet for his cock to sink in. Peter looks like the kind of a boy who knows how to deepthroat, and if not... oh, Chris would love to be the first one to make Peter choke on his cock, teach him how to take it all, every last inch. 

Chris comes at the thought of spilling his all over Peter’s pretty face and sleeps better that night than he has in a long time. 

There is a text from Peter when he wakes. _Soundgarden is playing a secret gig at the Roxy in LA next saturday, wanna go?_

Chris can’t stand Soundgarden. The fact that they’ve reunited is news to him. 

_Sure._

He’s fucked. 

***

Kurt Cobain is dead but Soundgarden has reunited. Your nephew is going to be a father, and your Alpha is actually on track to go to college to become a veterinarian. 

Your glib charade starts to crack a little. Or maybe it cracked a while ago, and you didn’t notice. Because they don’t treat you like a time bomb any more. They treat you like... not pack, but close. 

Stiles mocks your taste in music and Lydia sighs loudly, saying she hopes you don’t go back into your bad sartorial habits. Scott doesn’t know Soundgarden—kids these days!—so you tell him (you’ll make him a mixtape) to check it out on Spotify. (You miss mixtapes.) 

You don’t ask Derek if you can borrow his car; you just take it. After leaving a note you head over to Chris’ to pick him up. There is no way you’re spending that long a drive in a hunter’s car, where no amount of car washes will get rid of the scent of blood and fear underneath. 

Not to mention, since you can’t get drunk, you’re the designated driver. 

Chris looks good enough to eat in his well—fitting jeans and combat boots, the dark grey flannel shirt he’s wearing hanging open to reveal a tight black t—shirt that clings at all the right places. Your mouth goes dry and you lick your lips, committing the image of Chris leaning against the wall to memory. You’re going to think about the way he looks in great detail later, think about getting down on your knees and rubbing your face all over his crotch. (You’re sick of dog jokes but cannot deny the importance of scent.) 

From the glint in his eyes when he sees you, ripped jeans and all, you think you're not a complete idiot to fantasize about fucking a hunter. Fucking this hunter. 

The one whose sister is responsible for the ache that still grips you late at night, who had a hand in shutting you into the asylum where you rotted away until they needed you. And you know the ache is something he shares, the loss of those you love... but it doesn’t seem to _echo_ any more. 

It’s a four hour drive and as you’ve established, the driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. But Derek’s car doesn’t have a tape deck, and you sometimes longingly think of the excellent stereo of your old Viper. But, it has an iPod dock, and you made a playlist for the drive. (You never thought you could like a song that samples Blue Monday so much.)

Chris brought snacks, which you appreciate even though you’re gonna grab a bite before the gig. Dr Pepper for you, root beer for him, a bag of jerky and another of Reese’s Pieces to share. 

You distinctly remember him saying he doesn’t particularly care for peanut butter, and you smile when you pop a piece in your mouth. “Mmm. Perfect combinations are rare in an imperfect world.” 

He snorts, but it’s tempered with a smile. “And Reese’s is yours?”

You look at him from the corner of your eye and lick your lips slowly. “Actually, it was Mrs. Stilinski’s. She always told me she was the nutty one.”

You know what happened to her, and so does Chris. You both fall silent for a while as you drive, Booker T on the radio. (Stiles told you there’s a sequel to the Blues Brothers. You refuse to watch it on principle.) The last notes fade out, and lazy guitars come in with Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Chris’s hand is drumming against his thigh, and you ask him, “You play?”

He’s surprised by your question, defensive. “I… always wanted to,” he admits. “Never had the chance to learn.”

 _Gerard_ never allowed it, you fill in the blanks. “You still could,” you offer. “You’re not too late.”

He _looks_ at you and for a moment you wonder if he heard what you said, or if you’re talking about guitars at all. But the traffic demands your attention; the intersections have changed since you last headed out of town this way and although GPS is awesome, you really don’t want to get lost before you even get on the freeway. 

It’s an easy drive, filled with conversation and music, and you’re in Los Angeles before you know it. You made plans for dinner beforehand; there’s a little Italian place you used to love that’s still around. The fact that the old man who runs the place doesn’t look a day older than he did when you were here last makes you feel vaguely uncomfortable. Maybe the food _is_ magic. Or maybe you’re just distracted by blue eyes in candlelight and the positively obscene way Chris handles a fork. 

The concert certainly is fucking magical. You feel _alive_ in a way you haven’t since you—woke up. It’s a rush of adrenaline and endorphins and mass psychosis. It’s a gut punch to the soul and it makes you _feel,_ the crush of bodies on the floor a hot, sweaty maelstrom that leaves you drained. 

And Chris never leaves your side. He doesn’t sing along, he looks vaguely discomfited, keeps an eye out for the exits and potential hazards and you _rejoice_ because he’s got your back and you can let go. There’s a moment when you start feeling the change, the sheer exuberance of it coming to the fore and Chris is there, clamping a big hand on your neck and you find yourself stilling, his presence enough to get you back on solid footing. 

To anchor you. 

You shrug the thought aside and laugh, pushing back into Chris. Your bodies rub together, and you can feel every corded muscle in his body, the heat he puts out even through layers of clothing and oh god yes, that he’s chubbed up under his jeans when you grind your ass into the cradle of his hips. 

The crowd surges again and the moment of full on contact passes, but you don’t forget it; you can feel the heat in Chris’ eyes on you through the crush of bodies, through rubbing and grasping and a girl who almost, almost kisses you until the last notes of the encore fade and the roar dies down. 

All good things come to an end and you walk out of the venue, clutching an overpriced tour shirt like a lifeline. Chris’ is tucked into his back pocket, where you shoved it and you kind of wish you hadn’t because you want your hand in there, instead of the friendly rubbing of shoulders as you head towards your car. The air’s cooler than anticipated and it chills your ardour, and makes you think about what happened in there with your brain and not your dick, lets your nose and ears slowly clear out from near overload as you pull out your earplugs. 

You talk about the gig, channeling Stiles, and deliberately ignoring the mixed feelings the thought of Chris as your anchor raises in you. For so long, your anchor has been simple: pain. You still remember the loss of your mother, all those years ago, and the hatred you felt towards Talia for taking her away. Talia was the new alpha and treated you like a child, but not like a mother. 

You want to fuck Chris Argent, and enjoy his company, but the idea of a hunter being your anchor is absurd and laughable. No, this is just temporary, not the gentling of your wolf to another’s touch, just—a shared experience. 

“So what song was your favourite?” You ask as you flip the CD you also got in the air, watching it spin before you catch it. Flip it again, catch it.

You feel Chris shrug against you. “I don’t know.”

You stop and turn to him. “Come on, you have to have a favourite. Are you one of those guys who will say ‘Black Hole Sun’ no matter what?”

Chris shrugs. “I’ve never liked Soundgarden.”

You blink. “Come again?” And no, you will not think about Chris and multiple orgasms. 

He shrugs, vaguely chagrined. There’s a flush on his cheeks, from the house wine and the overpriced and watered down shots at the venue. He’s not drunk, but maybe his guard is down just enough that he says again, “I don’t like Soundgarden.”

It makes no sense. “Then why did you come?”

Chris looks at you, eyes dark. “Because you asked me to.” 

“Ah right, because you’re my lapdog and will sit up and play dead at whim. How could I have forgotten?”

He takes a step closer. “Look who’s talking.”

You know it’s not a good idea. You look him in the eye and tilt your head as you speak. “Woof.” 

****

The smug twist of his lips when he makes that noise is the last straw. Chris closes the distance between their bodies and reaches for Peter, grabbing him by the neck just as he did in the crowd and pulls the wolf to him. Peter lets out a small oof as their bodies collide, blue eyes wide and flickering to gold as Chris tightens his grip. 

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growls, and Peter licks his lips. 

“I don’t tease, I tempt,” he says flippantly but Chris can hear the undercurrent of uncertainty, feels both the tension vibrating through Peter’s body and the way his cock hardens rapidly. 

Chris has been hard since Peter first rubbed against him.

“What’s the difference?” 

“I deliver.” And then he’s surging forward, planting a clumsy kiss on Chris’ lips. 

Chris dimly hears the CD clattering on the pavement as his lips part automatically to deepen the kiss, as he pulls Peter in tight. He knows this is a bad idea, but he doesn’t care, not when Peter makes a _noise_ and presses closer. 

It’s hot and messy and Chris doesn’t remember ever having kissed someone like this, not with such single—minded intensity. He wants to devour Peter, eat up the Big Bad Wolf and it’s both frightening and exhilarating. He should be too old for this, too old to back a boy barely out of his teens against a dirty concrete wall, to insinuate a thigh between his and feel Peter’s hips buck, desperate for contact. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me,” Chris rasps as he pulls back, pupils blown wide. In the yellow street light Peter’s eyes are gleaming gold, the tips of his fangs coming out and it should disgust him. It does not. The fact that Peter is literally going wild is _hot as fuck._

Peter laughs and licks his lips. They’re slick and swollen, and Chris wants to see them rubbed red and raw from his beard, wants them around his cock right the fuck now. 

“Why don’t you tell me?” Peter says breathlessly.

Chris growls, leaning closer, his lips brushing against the pale shell of Peter’s ear as he fights the urge to bite. “You’re a little cocktease and you drive me fucking crazy. Flaunting your ass in those jeans.” and he slides a hand down Peter’s side to cup that ass, knuckles scraping against concrete as he does so but the moan Peter lets out is worth a little pain. “Constantly make me want to shut you up with my dick.” 

Blood rushes in his ears with the torrent of filth he murmurs into Peter’s ear, their bodies grinding together. Peter’s hands clutch Chris’ shirt helplessly, claws biting into the fabric. It would be so easy to just keep thrusting his thigh between the wolf’s, make the golden eyes roll back in Peter’s head. Every whine the wolf lets out gets higher—pitched, needier, and it is clear he’s getting close. 

It’s intoxicating. 

“Bet I could make you come just like this”—Chris’ voice stays low—“right here on the street, where anyone could see.”

“There’s—“ Peter’s words catch in his throat. “There’s a perfectly serviceable alley just a few feet down. Would you— wouldn’t you rather have me on my knees?” 

Chris groans. Because yes, the thought of Peter on his knees, that lush mouth wrapped around his cock is the one that keeps plaguing Chris, the one that keeps him awake at night, spilling into his own hand. 

Peter is shorter and slighter but no less strong than he once was. He pushes and Chris take a step back, and it doesn’t take much effort for the two of them to stumble into a darker, shadier alley, into the shadow of a doorway. 

It’s Chris who gets shoved back with an oof, shoulders slamming against the rusty metal and rattling the door. Peter just grins and then he’s down on his knees, looking up at Chris and Christ, it’s everything he imagined and more. Peter looks giddy but vulnerable; Chris is surprised by his own tenderness as he cups the wolf’s face, undoing his belt with his free hand. 

“Can’t wait to taste you.” Peter’s voice is breathless, barely audible over the din of the street just a few yards away. “Want it so bad.” But there is something in his voice that makes Chris hesitate, makes him stop before he gets his fly undone. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Peter?” he asks, moving to cup Peter’s face with both hands, pulling him up. Peter comes up without a protest. 

“Y—Yeah.” The wolf swallows but Chris doesn’t have to be a wolf to hear the uncertainty, the bravado. 

Chris closes his eyes and inhales sharply. His cock is hard in his jeans, the image of Peter on his knees fresh in his mind. He’s not a good man, and he knows what he could have right here and right now. He could fuck Peter’s mouth, shit, he could probably get away with bending the kid over and burying himself in that tight, hot ass that had rubbed against him earlier. 

“I don’t want to fuck this up.” His words come as a surprise to him. “I don’t want to fuck up what we’ve got, not for this.” 

He opens his eyes and finds Peter staring at him, wide eyes back to blue. 

The moment stretches for what feels like an eternity. “Dammit, Peter, say something!” 

“Like what? That oh gee thanks, I was about to suck your cock in a dirty alley but if you want to be just _pals_ and, and no homo out on me despite telling me how much you want to fuck me, it’s okay?” 

Chris blinks as Peter draws back, an ugly sneer coming on to his face. “No!”

“Then what?” 

Chris swallows hard. “I think you’re worth more than a back alley fuck.”

And it’s the truth. The kid Peter, he’s worth more than this, worth more than just a quick fuck in an alleyway. He wants to— fuck, he doesn’t even know what he wants. He wants to fuck Peter till the kid cries but he doesn’t want it to be like this. Doesn’t want to make it something that’s—

“Fuck you,” Peter spits and steps away. “I’m not— You’re not— This isn’t—“ His cheeks are flushed and there’s a wet gleam in his eyes. 

Christ, Chris is such an asshole. And he _wants._

“It’s a second chance,” he says gruffly. “And I don’t want to blow it.” 

****

You stare at the hunter with wild eyes, your heart pounding in your chest so loud you think even a human can hear it. There’s something short—circuiting in your head, the feeling of being _anchored_ by the hunter, by _Chris_ and the idea of this being a second chance clash with the radical, physical urges. 

“Blow it?” You are aware your voice is edging into hysteria, and you don’t care. You want to say more, you want to scream, because this is not what is supposed to be happening, you’re not supposed to have _feelings_ and be hurt, you’re supposed to be climbing the hunter like a motherfucking tree, not blinking—

There’s a scrape of boot against the ground that’s out of place and you tense, so does Chris, although you’re sure he didn’t hear it—he’s just reacting because you are. 

You see them, four guys with a mean look to their eyes; the tallest one is grinning, staring at Chris like it’s Christmas and you fight the urge to step in front of him. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t Gerard’s little golden boy,” the man drawls, and your hackles rise. You barely restrain a growl, Talia’s voice at the back of your head whispering you to run, to hide. _Hunters._

“Archer.” Chris’ voice is steely next to you. It doesn’t surprise you that he knows this guy. 

The hunters approach and you try to stay calm, try to keep from shifting. You’re acutely aware that the alley is a dead end, that you can’t just grab Chris and run. 

Chris is— Chris is stepping up, away from the doorway, shielding you and your heart catches in your throat. 

“Oh don’t worry, we’re not gonna hurt the little fag... much. Maybe the boys will keep him warm while I show you just what happens to fucking _traitors,_ ” the man spits out. “Consorting with fucking animals. Your wife and daughter must be rolling in their graves. Or was she even your kid? Were you a fucking pervert all along?”

You shrink away, every word hitting you hard. Part of you is incensed on Chris’ behalf; you never knew Victoria or Allison but you think they too would be really fucking pissed because you know shit husbands and shit dads and Chris wouldn’t be one, ever, but the majority of you is fucking terrified. Of — of _everything_. You know, logically, that things are better now but you remember hiding, remember the fear of what would Talia say, what would anyone say, the thought of being dirty and wrong and disease and you can’t help it, you whimper. 

Chris doesn’t glance back at you, but you can feel him stiffen, can feel him as you press into his back, trying to keep the fear at bay. You inhale deeply, trying to rein in your wolf, trying to not to make this worse and you get a lungful of his fury and determination, and it hits you hard. 

And yet it’s still enough to calm you down so that when you look up, your eyes are still blue. 

“I am only saying this once, Archer.” Chris’ voice is colder than Arctic pack ice. “Fuck off.” 

Archer sneers. “Don’t think so, Chris. There’s four of us, one of you, and I don’t see a gun on you. Whileas my boys, well, they’re packing some grade A shit. Not that you’d know a good gun if it bit you in the ass with the second rate shit your family peddles.” 

Chris doesn’t take his attention away from them when he tilts his head, speaks to you in a low voice, too low for a human to hear. “Step back and take cover, they might have wolfsbane and I don’t want any ricochets hitting you.” 

Your hands hurt when you release your death grip of Chris’ shirt; you would be embarrassed if you weren’t still terrified, but Chris’ surety is reassuring, calming, _anchoring_... Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. You try to not to make it obvious that you’re retreating, taking small half—steps backwards. 

There’s a glint of metal and you _dive_ with enough speed that you end up bruising your shoulder on the brick wall when you misjudge the distance. 

You can hear a shout, and you can’t help it, you disobey Chris and you _look_ , peek across the side of the dumpster and your jaw drops even as your heart hammers in your throat as you watch Chris _taking apart_ the four hunters. 

You knew he was good, you were told about the time Derek— _possessed, dear god_ t—had tied him to a chair and yet Derek told you with haunted eyes how Chris had begged for Derek to not to make him kill him. Even so what’s happening before your eyes looks like fucking magic and a part of you keeps thinking he can’t be _thuman._

Only he is, and he is every bit as dangerous as the deadliest of the wolves you _know — knew — know_ You hear the crunch of bone, the sound of a blade slicing flesh and smell the blood hot and heavy and just like that, one, two, three the _fucking assholes_ are down—

Three? 

“Got you!” 

You yelp in surprise as you’re dragged up by an iron grip on your shoulder and before you know it, the hunter has you in a tight hold, a knife to your throat. 

“Drop the knife, Chris, or the boy gets it.” This close you can smell the rancid meat on the hunter’s breath, hear his elevated heartbeat. The knife is cold on your throat and you think it is pricking the skin but you can’t be sure. 

And you’re not scared any more. You’re _angry._

You see the emotion that briefly flicker’s on Chris’ face, the concern, before it shuts down under a mask of stone. You see the way he looks at the hunter and you _get_ it, why you always, always run from a hunter, run from an _Argent._

Except you’re not running from him. You’re running to him, or you would except there is a knife on your throat and the _fucker_ is pressing it down, a trickle of blood hot on your neck and you know he’s gonna notice the cut healing and Chris is _dropping the knife—_

You shift. It takes the hunter by surprise, which fills you with grim satisfaction. You’re not _weak._ You were never a fighter— _that changed, that will change now_ —but you took Lottie to her self—defense classes and your memory is still sharp when you grab the hand holding the knife and you _twist_. 

The hunter’s pained howl turns into a groan when you _push_ and he goes flying into the same brick wall your shoulder met earlier. There is a very satisfying thump when he hits the ground and groans, and you release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

Everything gets loud, the noises from the street, the sound of heartbeats; none of them are dead, you realize dimly as you sway on your feet. 

“Easy now,” the words take you by surprise and the sound you make is a confused little growl. You blink, your eyes going back to blue and fangs receding slowly as your senses are overwhelmed by Chris’ scent, his heartbeat, keeping the dizziness at bay.

His arms wrap around you and he pulls you in tight; you bury your face in his neck and inhale deeply, deep, wet gulps of _safe_ and _anchor_ as he tells you how stupid that was, how reckless, how you could have been hurt—

You want to tell him to shut up but when you lift your head to tell him so he kisses you. It’s sloppy and hurried and fucking perfect, your hands clutching into his shoulders as palpable relief floods through you both. 

Finally, you have to pull back for air. You’re still cutching each other even as you stare each other in the eyes. 

“Take me home.” 

****

The drive back to Beacon Hills should be awkward, except Peter nearly passes out on the way to the car. Chris makes sure he’s comfortable on the passenger seat and slips the keys from his pocket, far more used to staying alert and carrying on even after a situation such as this. 

He knows he has to make a few calls, make sure there’s an ear on the ground in case the situation hits official radar. He doesn’t think so, since Archer and his men were all left alive, albeit out of commission. Hunters stick to their own, and Chris has no doubt that unless someone literally stumbles onto them, there will be no repercussions... until Archer’s recovered and comes back. 

Chris is not fool; Archer is probably not the only one who’s got a problem with him. His deal with Calaveras expired with Kate’s death, and the fact that he is back in Beacon Hills, that he’s not hunting, it speaks volumes. He’s turned his back to everything he knew, except—

_"Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux—mêmes."_

He wanted to protect Peter. Peter, whose fear had been palpable, alien, unexpected. It hits him, again, how young this Peter is, how different. And yet, it’s clear how he became who he was, all the hints to that drive, that power, even that breadth of shoulders still there. But this time, Peter has a chance to not be burnt out. Chris will see to it. 

A good man would make sure Peter gets home to Derek’s safe. A better man would know there should never be anything between them, that Chris is too old, too broken to drag on Peter’s second chance. 

Chris is not a good man. 

Peter wakes when they get to their destination, yawning and stretching like a cat. His shirt rides up, baring his lean stomach and Chris knows he shouldn’t look, shouldn’t let his eyes gorge on the pale expanse of skin. But now that he knows it is not entirely unwelcome he doesn’t avert his eyes. 

Peter notices, of course. “Dirty old man,” He hums and stretches again, making a show of it. 

That tone is so self—satisfied, so smug, so _Peter_ that Chris can’t help it: he laughs. “You wish.”

“I _know_ ,” Peter says when he lowers his arms and looks around, then looks at Chris. “This isn’t the loft.”

“I know.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, just smirks. “My poor virtue.”

“You haven’t had any in a long time, Hale.”

And there is again that flash of uncertainty on Peter’s face, and it suddenly hits him. That the hesitancy wasn’t about them, it was about something much more innocuous. 

It should not excite him, but it does. 

“Oh, screw you, I am pure as the driven snow.” Peter bats his eyelashes and pouts, sticking out that plush lower lip and Chris is done for.

He reaches out to cup Peter’s face and pull him into a kiss. Runs his tongue over Peter’s lips, swallows the startled little oh the boy makes as Chris licks his way into his mouth. 

“Not for long,” Chris breathes against Peter’s mouth as he pulls back, “Not when I get you into my bed.” 

“So I’m too good for a back alley but good enough for your bed?” Peter’s eyes are dancing devilishly. 

“Good enough for my life,” Chris admits gruffly. “For what it’s worth.”

“You’re such an _asshole_ , Chris.” 

And then Peter is kissing him again, hands curling into Chris’ shirt, trying to crawl closer across the centre console. It’s deep and dirty and Chris can feel the desperation and leftover adrenaline still in Peter’s system despite the sleep, knows this is probably a really shitty idea but he’s past caring. 

There was a knife to Peter’s throat. He could have died. It would have been Chris’ fault. And with every pass of Peter’s lips against his, every little noise Peter makes, he’s not going to throw away this. 

He’s too old to have sex in, in Derek’s car, for fuck’s sake; he pulls back, watches Peter’s eyes flutter open, still a pale, human blue. “Lets go to bed.”

“I’m shaking like milk.” And that line’s never made any sense to Chris, but Peter’s smile, sly, secretive and almost giddy is enough to have him reach out, grasp Peter by hand. 

He lives in the fourth floor but the elevator is quick enough, especially when he pushes Peter against the cold mirror and sucks marks into the wolf’s neck, marks that disappear too fast but draw breathy little moans from Peter that go straight into Chris’ dick. 

Finally they make it into his apartment, and the door clicks shut with finality. Chris finds himself pushed into a wall with Peter’s superior strength, Peter’s mouth latching onto his neck to pay back for the elevator with interest. 

A werewolf has his teeth on Chris’ throat and all he can do is groan, sinking a hand in Peter’s hair and pressing him closer, wedge a thigh between Peter’s for the wolf to grind against. 

Peter’s breath hitches and Chris grins, more wolf than hunter. 

“That wasn’t sass, was it?” he murmurs, teeth grazing the shell of Peter’s ear. “For all your teasing, you’ve never been fucked. Never been taken apart, made to come till you cry.” His hand slides down to cup Peter's perfect ass and squeezes for emphasis, drawing another gasp from Peter. 

They manage to stumble into the apartment, into Chris’ bedroom, into his bed. The bed is made with his usual precision, but by the time he’s got Peter’s shirt rucked up to his armpits, the bedspread is halfway to the floor and Peter is moaning with every flick of Chris’ tongue over a pebbled nipple. 

The rest of their clothing follows suit, and soon Chris is staring down at the expanse of naked skin Peter is putting on display. Again, Peter is stretching, purposefully lifting his arms over his head to suggest vulnerability, to accentuate the long, lean lines of his body. 

“You’re such a fucking tease,” Chris’ voice is gruff as he drinks in the sight, eyes lingering on the dip of Peter’s hips, the urge to just rip the last bit of clothing between them strong. 

“I told you, I tempt, I don’t tease.” Peter pouts, just the slightest bit of hesitation in his voice. “What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation to give it to me? Do you want me to beg for your cock?” 

And oh, Chris wants. He wants to hear Peter’s voice broken and wrecked, hitching on every word as he begs and pleads for Chris to please, please fuck him. And he knows it can happen. He could make Peter beg for it, so easy. 

“Think you can take me?” he asks instead, running his fingertips over the exposed skin of Peter’s hip, making the boy arch off the bed. He remembers the breathless look on Peter’s face when he’d asked Chris to tell him more, so he keeps talking, telling Peter just what he wants to do to him, how he’s going to lick him open, stretch him up, get him ready.

“I am going to _ruin_ you—” And that’s when Peter can’t take it any more, he surges up and throws himself at Chris with more grace than Chris had thought possible. Peter’s mouth is hot on his, the long—fingered hands tugging at what is left of Chris’ clothes in a frantic hurry. 

“Please,” Peter gasps into his mouth, “Oh god, Chris, _please_.” 

Chris is not going to say no to a lapful of panting moaning Peter, whose skin is so hot against his he thinks he’s gonna burn. His hands grip Peter’s hips hard enough to bruise as Peter grinds down, head thrown back in ecstasy. At the very last moment when Peter’s eyes are about to roll back in his head, Chris stills, using his hold to pull Peter away from him, away from the friction despite how much he wants to rut against the wolf. 

Peter’s eyes fly open and they’re gold. “Fuck me.” His voice is rough, as if Chris had already fucked his throat raw, and there’s such need behind it Chris is not going to say no. 

Peter yelps when Chris pushes him off, back onto the bed. The yelp becomes a whine when Chris manhandles him till he’s positioned to the hunter’s liking, with his head buried in his crossed arms and that gorgeous ass up, his spread legs trembling. 

Chris tucks his thumbs under the waistband of Peter’s briefs and tugs them down, till the fabric rests under the curve of his ass. It’s just as perfect as he’d envisioned and he tells Peter so, drawing another moan from the wolf. 

Chris restrains himself from laying an open—handed slap on the pale skin, just to watch it jiggle and redden for a moment. Instead, he runs his hands over Peter’s hips, digs his thumbs into the flesh and bares Peter’s shy pink hole to his gaze. 

Peter _howls_ when Chris’ tongue first touches him. 

Chris takes his time, laving the flat of his tongue over the furled muscle, working the tip inside. His hands span Peter’s hips, hold him in place as Peter whines and thrashes and tries to push back for more. Every broken plea Peter makes for _more_ burns hot in Chris’ belly, going straight to his dick. 

He works a finger in alongside his tongue and Peter _sobs_ , the sound of the sheets tearing under his claws startlingly loud over the sound of his cries and Chris’ harsh breath. When Chris moves up, leaving his fingers buried inside Peter, Peter whines with loss even though all Chris does is reach up, to grab the lube from the bedside. 

The lube is cool to the touch and the contrast between it and the insane heat of Peter's body makes his breath catch. He dribbles more slick over his hand, and the sound of his fingers make when they slide inside Peter is an obscene squelch. 

“Still with me, baby?” The endearment slips out as he leans forward to brush the hair off Peter’s face with his free hand.

Peter’s eyes flutter open, the pupils blown wide and dark. He blinks heavily, his soft lips moving silently for a moment before he can form words. “Y—yeah.” 

“Good boy.” He leans in, his body covering Peter’s and kisses the slack mouth as he slides in another finger.

He wants to make this good for Peter, wants to make this special. He doesn’t know just how virginal Peter is, but one thing is certain: the wolf has never been fucked. Chris won’t delude himself into thinking the idea that he’s the first to have Peter, the first one to feel that tight heat around his dick, doesn’t excite him. 

He could slide in so easy like this, just pull out his fingers and replace them with his dick. But, as attractive as the idea of fucking Peter on all fours is, as much as it makes his cock throb against his thigh, what he wants is to see Peter’s face when his cock slides in inch by inch. 

Peter makes a bereft noise when Chris pulls back, but it turns into another moan as Chris kisses him again, hard and hungry, licking his way into that plush mouth as he maneuvers them around. His hands are slick with lube when they grasp Peter’s hips as the wolf scrambles to straddle him again, but this time, his briefs have been shucked off and Chris hisses when their cocks slide together, Peter’s uncut cock positively soaked with precome. 

Their eyes meet and Peter’s are tinted gold, his face streaked with sweat and tears. he’s breathing hard, arms wrapped around Chris’ neck and he’s _gorgeous._

“Gonna watch you take me, baby,” Chris murmurs and kisses the wolf again, slipping a hand between their bodies to brush his fingers against Peter’s fluttering hole. “You like that?” 

Peter nods, inhales sharply, and finds his words. “Yeah, I want that—want to, want to see your face.” 

He is _blushing_ and Chris can’t help it, he chuckles and slides in two fingers, drawing a gasp from Peter. “That’s it, Peter, I’m gonna make it so good for you.”

 

And then Peter is raising up on his knees, using Chris’ shoulders for balance even though Chris has no doubt the wolf needs no support; he gets a flash of Peter with his hands cuffed behind his back and oh that is a thought they should explore later. Right now, Peter’s eyes are wide, determination set in his features as Chris slowly guides the head of his dick towards Peter’s slick hole. 

Chris groans when just the tip catches on Peter’s rim; the werewolf heat is unmistakable, should be alien but it only makes him crave this more, makes him want to bury his cock balls deep in Peter’s tight little ass. From the noise Peter makes, the wolf is fully on board with this idea and slowly, agonizingly, Chris slips in.

Peter makes a noise that’s more animal than human and Chris can feel claws pricking against his skin. It shouldn’t be hot but it is, and Chris nudges his hips, works the wet head of his cock past the rim. He grits his teeth, fights the urge to just _take_ , to pull Peter’s slim hips down till Chris is all the way in. From the high—pitched keening noise Peter is making, he doesn’t think the wolf would object; Peter’s dick is smacking wetly against his pale abs, red and heavy. 

He can feel the strain in Peter’s body, the trembling of his thighs. Peter moves, eyes meeting Chris’s directly and there’s so much heat in his eyes, so much _want_ barely tempered with the slightest hint of hesitation and before Chris can speak, Peter _drops_ and Chris sees stars. 

*****

Your eyes roll back in your head. You feel— _amazing_. It burns, the unfamiliar stretch and fullness but with every tiny twitch of your hips, another flare of pleasure sparks along your nerves and you know there is _more_. As deep as Chris’ cock is in you, you know it isn’t hitting that one spot you’ve managed to graze with your fingers, the supposed holy grail of getting fucked in the ass and you want him to _move._

His hands on your hips are holding you in place, grip tight enough for bruises to form and fade. You know you could break it but it doesn’t feel that way and it excites you; this is what you have been wanting, craving—the feel of someone who can take _everything_ you’ve got to give. 

He’s asking you something, if you’re okay, if it feels good but the words are a buzz in your ears. Instead of answering you lean forward and let your hips roll against his hold and you both gasp. 

You rock your hips and _fuck_ it feels good; everything turns hazy, like it did when Chris first fucked you with his tongue. He’s still talking, his velvet sandpaper voice low and soothing as he murmurs praise and filth in equal measures. Your shoulders sag forward, his hands on your hips holding you steady even as he shifts, bracing his feet on the bed. 

Chris’ hips snap up and you howl. 

You hate how awkward you feel, how out of control, the rhythm of your hips not matching his; but then there’s a lube—slick hand wrapping around your dick and it’s too much too soon—

You come so hard you nearly black out. 

Before you can fully recover, Chris flips you over so he’s on top, pressing you into the mattress. Somehow, his cock is still inside you and like this, with your body still rippling with aftershocks it’s too fucking much, too fucking good, too fucking _perfect—_

“That’s it, baby,” he croons as he pulls back till just the head of his cock is inside your hole, keeping you spread open. “Fuck, you’re so pretty when you come on my cock. So fucking gorgeous. You were _made_ to be fucked.” 

There’s a flush high on your cheeks that’s not entirely exertion. You groan and he leans forward, capturing your lips in another messy, hungry kiss, the hand he’s not using to brace himself over your body gripping your hair hard enough to hurt. 

And you like it. 

Slowly, he sinks his cock in you and you can feel every inch of it, your hips hitching up trying for more. But he’s got you pinned, and you _know_ your superior strength won’t matter, that he’s got you held and it shouldn’t make your breath catch but it does. Your cock is half—hard already, coated with lube and come as it brushes against Chris’ lightly furred abs. 

You gasp into his mouth and he chuckles darkly, like he knows what you’re thinking, how much you’re getting off on the edge of danger and how roughly he is treating you. 

“Please,” you whine when he doesn’t move, when you can _feel_ his cock flexing inside you, tantalizingly close but not enough.

“What was that?”

Oh, the _bastard_. 

Your eyes flash gold and you growl. You don’t know what to do with your hands, you want to touch him, want to pull him in but your claws are out and you don’t want to _maim_ him so it’s the sheets that tear in your grip as you wiggle, trying to get _more._

Chris jerks his hips forward and you gasp, your back arching off the bed. Light flashes at the edges of your vision, that’s it, that’s the spot and you can’t help it. You beg. 

“Please, Chris, fuck me—“ 

With a growl more suited to a wolf than a hunter he obliges, pulling back and slamming back in hard and fast, grazing your prostate and sending a white—hot bolt of pleasure through you. 

You throw your head back, bare your neck; Chris doesn’t hesitate, he bites down hard, marking you, lips and teeth and tongue worrying your flesh, his beard scraping over the skin over and over again till you think your healing can’t keep up, that he’s gonna leave you red and raw and it’s that thought that gets you completely hard again. 

It’s so fucking amazing, you want to cry, your claws barely sheathed as you bury your hands in his hair and pull his head closer, incoherent pleas for more and _fuck me_ and _bite me_ falling from your lips. 

Your second orgasm takes you by surprise. The relentless scrape of Chris’ dick against your prostate coupled with the friction between your bodies is enough to tip you over the edge again, leave you shaking and whining and oversensitive. 

You don’t have to see Chris’ face to know he’s smug, you can hear it in the deep groan he lets out when your body ripples around his dick as you ride through the spasming aftershocks of pleasure. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over to kiss you, nipping at your lips surprisingly gently as you try to catch your breath. “I know you can take more.”

You want to protest, that no, you can’t, it’s too much, but you can’t get the words out and then Chris is moving again, snapping his hips forward. Everything feels too sensitive, almost unreal, every nerve ending in your body sizzling with electricity. 

He fucks you slow and deep, wrenching another toe—curling, sheet—rending orgasm out of you, his broad hand wrapped around your tender cock and his teeth savage as they bite your neck.  
Your throat is too sore to howl, the noise you make closer to a whimper than a whine as color sparks behind your eyelids and everything crashes down and leaves you breathless. 

Chris groans and surges forward to kiss you even as his body goes rigid. You feel the hot rush as his cock flexes inside you, filling you with his come and it’s too much— 

He gentles the kiss, slowly pulling back and letting you gasp for air, your breath mingling. You force your eyes open — when did you close them — and meet his bright blue ones. He pulls back carefully and you both hiss, the slide of his spent cock against your swollen, oversensitive hole almost painful. You know your body is healing already, repairing the damage if there was any but right now, it’s not how you feel. (Briefly you wonder if there was wolfsbane in the lube. If wolfsbane lube is a thing. You’ll have to ask Stiles.) 

You expect him to collapse on top of you, and you welcome the idea of being pinned down by him, feeling the weight of him grounding you since you still feel almost unreal, like part of you is still in danger of floating away. Instead he takes care not to do so, shifting aside so most of his weight doesn’t land on you; he’s still curling up against your side and his broad hand cups your face, drawing you in for another, softer kiss. 

Part of you feels bereft but the fact that he’s still touching you, is kissing you in an almost chaste manner is enough to ground you, and that one word you don’t want to think about— anchor — floats in the forefront of your mind again. You lift a hand to push him away, only to find yourself wrapping your hand around his shoulder, pulling him closer. 

You’ve never cuddled with a man before. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with your arms, where do your hands go, you never expected this, never expected Chris’ arms around you, gathering you close.

You never expected _this_ and with a _hunter_ — 

Everything starts to collapse, slowly but inexorably. Your breath catches in your throat and it has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the mind—numbing panic you felt earlier, everything to do with what you’ve been told all your life, what Talia told you, about hunters, about _this._

You don’t realize you’ve sat up until Chris makes a questioning noise behind you, but you don’t answer. You’re clutching the sheet to your chest, trying to hold yourself together. You’re not doing a very good job at it, your breath hitching wetly.

Chris touches your shoulder gently, almost hesitantly. He knows that even though you’re trying to not to cry like a little bitch, you’re still a fucking predator capable of ripping out his throat in an instant. (Maybe.) And yet… 

“Just breathe, baby, let it all out.” Chris’ voice is calm and it makes you angry. How can he be so calm when you could have been killed just a scant few hours earlier, when you could have been—

You shove the thought aside viciously, your shoulders hunching forward, away from his touch. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, doesn’t demand you attend to him and it’s fucking with your head. You’re not sure what should happen now, when you ever thought about this, it was not being brought to someone’s house and bed, it was something furtive, secretive, dangerous— you didn’t know, didn’t dare to do anything back then and now.. 

“Peter, look at me. Please.” Chris’ voice cuts through your jumble of thoughts and you draw a deep, shuddering breath. 

Slowly, you turn your head, blinking away the unshed tears. 

Chris is looking at you with his bright eyes full of concern, frowning. The moment stretches on, neither one of you saying anything. 

You don’t expect the yawn that makes you feel like a weresnake, not a werewolf, cracking your jaw unexpectedly and almost painfully. It’s stupid and you can’t help it, you laugh. And with that, you find yourself actually using your words. (Scott would be so proud of you.) 

You tell him that you were afraid, earlier. That you don’t want to be afraid. You tell him that yeah, okay, you’d never gone this far with a guy and there’s a look of understanding in his eyes and you kind of want to smack yourself in the face. Of course Chris gets it. He lived through it, too, the gay cancer, the fear and uncertainty and he didn’t even have the (now certain, back then, unknown) werewolf healing to count on. 

Talking doesn’t make you feel better. It makes you feel drained, uncertain, still angry because you don’t want this, you don’t want to be _talking_ about your _feelings_ , and your words reflect that. You’re bitter and jaded, the sharp edge of more than sarcasm on every word. 

Chris isn’t fazed. The fucker. 

You look away, intensely aware of how fucking vulnerable you are like this. You remember Chris telling you you are _good enough for his life_ (No lies detected) but what does that mean, really? You’re more than familiar with meaningless phrases aimed at getting into someone’s pants and you have no desire to tell him that yeah, in addition to being the first guy to fuck you through the mattress, he’s also your fucking anchor. 

Maybe he already knows. Fucking _hunter._

“What, not going to tell me you’ll take care of me? Look after me? _Protect_ me?” 

Chris flinches at the last word. Shit. You didn’t really want to remind him of his dead kid. 

“Do you want me to?” And that’s a surprise, you expected him to say you don’t need protecting, don’t need looking after— he knew you, after all, when you were the one about to raze this entire godforsaken town to the ground. Didn’t he? 

There is a part of you that is so fucking tired of everything, that wants to say yes. Just let go,let someone else do the thinking, the heavy lifting. The way your alpha should have. The way Talia never did. 

“No.”

“Then I won’t. But I will be here for you— “ Chris’ words come out halting, like he is fighting to get them out, like this is hard for him, too. And maybe it is. “Any way you want me.” 

And that’s the big question, the unexpected fucking thing. That Chris Argent is your anchor and instead of getting your rocks off with a hunter , you’ve found someone you _feel_ for, someone who makes you feel like you’re not adrift for the first time since you woke up. Maybe even since— before. 

You thought it would be just — this. But it’s not. It’s late night conversations, movie dates, arguing about books over a drink, it’s Chris coming to see Soundgarden with you when he doesn’t like them and you here and now in his bed, and so much more.

“Any way I want it,” you say softly and yeah there’s suddenly Journey stuck in your head, stupid and inappropriate and so 80s it hurts. 

It makes you laugh and close your eyes, tension leeching from your shoulders as Chris pulls you close. If your laughter turns into something resembling sobs against his broad chest, neither one of you is going to acknowledge it. 

He presses a soft kiss in your hair, on your forehead, on your cheek and you’re thinking, yeah, kissing is good, you don’t think you’re up for a second rand of _distract me from my feelings_ sex, but kissing is good. 

And because the universe _hates_ you, that’s when Derek and Scott barge in. 

**

Apparently Derek managed to miss your note, and you have been MIA for well over 12 hours, your phone off and Derek’s car missing. 

Ooops. 

You don’t blush even as you drape yourself against the bookshelf, the shirt Chris hastily shoved at you to preserve your supposed modesty far too big for you, hanging off your shoulders and smelling of Chris. 

There is surprisingly little yelling. Chris looks chagrined when he apologises for turning off the GPS, but you’re paying more attention to the play of muscles on his arms as he crosses them across his chest. 

Derek and Scott are both clearly uncomfortable, Derek more so; you don’t blame him, growing up in a house full of extended family and wolves goes only so far when it comes to getting your senses full of.. well, you don’t want to think about what Derek is scenting right now too closely. 

Unfortunately you don’t get to just shoo them off in a cloud of mortification and concern from Scott which you would find heartwarming if he wasn’t cock-blocking you. The reason they were so worried about you, and the reason they decided they need to get Chris and his firepower involved, is yet another monster of the week showing up, drawn here by the Nemeton.

You find your pants and accompany Derek back to the loft, smirking every time you see the red tips of his ears. You didn’t bother grabbing your shirt, instead luxuriating in being surrounded by Chris’ smell. You like it, it is grounding even at the face of—

“What did you say we’re facing, again?”

“Trolls.”

“Shit.”

Trolls _suck_.

You’ve never fought them yourself. Talia did, once, when you were still a pup, together with your parents. You remember it took Uncle Stefan months to heal, remember the gouge in the rock face in the preserve. Troll war clans are an enemy no one takes on lightly. 

You hope that they’re wrong and it’s not trolls. Something more benign, like a basilisk, would be so much better. 

In the end, what’s been barging through the preserve crushing trees and vegetation is, in fact, a drunken troll. Once he sobers up he is very apologetic. Never knew he was in Hale, sorry, McCall territory, never going to do it again, so sorry, much contrite, here have some of his gold as recompense.

Stiles’ eyes bug out of his head when the troll pulls out a bar of gold from— somewhere you really don’t want to think about— and puts it down at Scott’s feet. Scott’s appropriately grateful, makes noises about friendship and please do not do this again thank you.

You’re pretty sure Chris— and, surprisingly, Kira— are mildly upset the rocket launcher was not needed. You have to admit, it would have been cool. (No weapon forged, yadda yadda.)

The now-sober troll takes off with a low rumble of rock, and you’re left standing around awkwardly, armed for troll and nowhere to go. At least it’s not raining. 

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Stiles says, eyes still on the lump of gold. “But that’s college tuition sorted for you, Scotty.” 

Scott shakes his head. “It’s not for me, Stiles, it’s for the pack.” 

There’s enough gold in the troll-forged bar to take care of more than one college tuition, you think, even with the absolutely ridiculous heights it’s reached, but you don’t speak up. You don’t want to think about college, about how fake IDs hold up or what it would be like to finally be away. 

With nothing holding you back, you’re no longer sure if you want to run. 

Chris is looking at you from where he’s finished securing up the hardware, his blue eyes sharp. He’s not exactly wary, but you know the conversation that was so rudely interrupted by the impending emergency is still hanging around you in the air. 

Scott comes to you and with a chagrined smile, puts a hand on your shoulder. “Look, Peter, I’m sorry we crashed your date, we were just worried. Next time can you make sure we know if you’re going out of town?”

 _Crashed your date_. You did not expect this, expect the — easy acceptance and earnestness. Scott is looking at you with concern in his eyes, and you think, it actually is concern for you, not about you. That your Alpha’s discomfort isn’t because of what he walked into, it’s because he was _worried._

It feels a little like being punched in the gut. 

You nod dumbly and look away, to where Chris has finished and is looking at you hesitantly. 

Scott smiles and claps you on the shoulder. “Go on, go get your boyfriend and go home.” 

_Boyfriend._

You like the sound of that, even when it’s really fucking ridiculous taking into account that Chris is most definitely not a _boy_ , and you have ample proof of that. 

Next to you, Scott wrinkles his nose.

You smirk, and slowly, carefully walk across the clearing to where Chris is still standing, his hands held loosely on his sides. You can hear his heartbeat speed up just a little, and the knowledge that you can get that kind of a reaction out of him. 

“So…” you drawl when you reach him. “Shall we?”

You know it’s not that easy, even with the fact that your Alpha — fuck, Scott McCall is your alpha, you can’t even deny that any more — approves, as do the rest of the pack. None of them, not even Derek when you _really_ think about it seem in any way surprised. You still have to talk, you still have to tell your Alpha about the hunters in Los Angeles, there’s still so much baggage between the two of you even without any of your memories but right now? 

Right now, your _boyfriend_ is reaching out to take your hand so you can go home. 

Yeah, you really do like the sound of that. 

Kurt Cobain is dead, but you have another chance.


End file.
